Shadow in the Deep (Binding of the Blade #3)

PROLOGUE:

FARIMAAL’S REWARD

FARIMAAL COUGHED AS HE walked through the roughhewn,
dimly lit tunnel. The sound of hammers striking rock
echoed up and down the corridors all around him. Despite
the fact they had been working more than ten years already,
there seemed to be no end in sight to the ongoing excavations.
Malek was digging into the very roots of the Mountain,
and it had been a long time since the Nolthanim had dared to
hope that their sojourn beneath the earth, cut off from the
sun and stars, would be brief.

Arriving at a dark junction where two of the smaller corridors
intersected, he paused. He had only recently started coming
down this way, and he was still getting his bearings. As sure
as he was ever going to be that the correct way was to the left,
he kept moving with his torch held firmly before him. The
tunnel was made for men and was much too small for
Malekim, let alone Vulsutyrim, but from time to time Black
Wolves came down this way. It wasn’t that the children of Rucaran
scared him, but he didn’t like surprises, especially when
they brushed past his legs in the dark.

A few turns and several minutes later he found the midsized,
reasonably well-lit room that he had been looking for.
His friend Ronan had shown him the room a few weeks earlier,
and ever since, Farimaal and the other captains of the
Nolthanim had used it as a sort of common room far from
the populous and sometimes-crowded rooms and caverns on
the upper levels of Malek’s new home. The modicum of distance
the Nolthanim managed to keep from the rest of
Malek’s hosts was hard to maintain inside the Mountain, but
as the labyrinth of tunnels and rooms continued to grow, the
opportunity to reestablish that distance increased.

Three men sat at a table along the near wall, but only
Bralis looked up as Farimaal entered. He nodded in acknowledgment
and Farimaal reciprocated, moving silently past
them toward the table much farther inside the room where
Ronan sat, waiting.

“Do you have it?” Ronan said as Farimaal sat down at the
table.

“Yes,” Farimaal answered, pulling a small, carefully
wrapped package from the pouch that hung at his waist and
putting it on the table. Ronan picked up the package and unwrapped
it carefully.

“Freshly cooked rabbit,” Ronan said under his breath as he
pulled a strip of meat away from the bone and dropped it into
his open mouth. His face broke into a wide smile as he chewed
silently, looking at Farimaal and shaking his head. “You are going
to get yourself killed if you keep going down to the edge
of Gyrin on your own. I don’t care how good of a hunter you
are, one of these days a patrol of Great Bear is going to catch
you, and you aren’t going to come back.”

“True.” Ronan nodded, having taken another bite. “There
are benefits to your foolhardy ideas.”

“Indeed,” Farimaal answered. “I would not go if there were
no benefits.”

Ronan continued to eat the rabbit, and Farimaal watched
in silence. He had eaten his own fill, for he had caught three
and brought them back the previous night. What he didn’t eat
he stored in his room, but he always brought Ronan a portion,
even though his friend had gone with him to Gyrin only once,
many years ago when they first retreated into the Mountain.

Seeing motion out of the corner of his eye, Farimaal
turned back toward the door. Another man entered and took
a seat with the other three Nothlanim officers. Farimaal
turned back to Ronan, who was still eating the rabbit, watching
Farimaal closely. “What is it?” Ronan asked.

“What is what?”

“What’s on your mind?”

Farimaal shrugged and shook his head.

“Don’t say nothing,” Ronan said, pausing for the first time
before taking another bite. “You’re pondering something.”

Farimaal looked back over his shoulder at the four men,
who were far enough away that they surely couldn’t hear. “I’m
thinking about going to Malek about his most recent offer.”

Ronan choked, a small chunk of rabbit meat falling out of
his mouth and onto the floor. “You’re wasting my meat,” Farimaal
said evenly.

“Yes, and I’d better not, because if you just said what I
think you said, you won’t be getting me any more. Are you
mad? I mean, I know you’re a little out there, but I didn’t
think you were really mad.”

Farimaal shrugged again.

“By the Mountain, Farimaal, you’re serious! I can’t believe
you. I know you don’t want to live the rest of your life in here,
but if you want to die so badly, one of us could run you
through and get it over with. Why travel all the way to that
dragon tower just to be a meal for a Grendolai?”

“Malek says he’ll give the one who subdues the Grendolai
the power to rule at his right hand when we get out of
here. Not only could I secure all the things we’ve dreamed
of for our people, Ronan, but Malek would give me life,
long life.”

“Farimaal.” Ronan looked and sounded completely incredulous.
“You would have to survive the journey and compel
the Grendolai to reforge their bonds with Malek before he
gave you anything. What makes you think you could succeed
at what even Malekim and Vulsutyrim couldn’t do?”

“I have to.”

Ronan’s expression changed from shock to bewilderment.

“What do you mean, you have to? You don’t have to do this.
No one really believes what Malek is asking can be done, unless
Malek goes himself, and even then there are doubts. You
saw what the Grendolai did to the dragon near that dragon
tower in Suthanin. He ripped a gaping hole right through the
dragon’s scales and tore him up inside. You think you’re going
to walk into that dragon tower and tell the Grendolai what
he has to do?”

“I have to.”

Ronan shook his head. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“I have the disease.”

Ronan’s face changed again. The shock was back, but this
time there was more. He was sobered, and Farimaal knew Ronan
now understood just how serious he was. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I have all the signs: the bruises, the cough, everything.”

“It can’t be,” Ronan muttered. “Not you. Of all people,
not you.”

“Why not me?” Farimaal said, returning Ronan’s gaze levelly.

For several moments, neither of them said anything. The
sound of laughter drifted across the room from the other
table, but neither of them turned to look. “Even if it is true,”
Ronan said at last, “some have lived a couple of years with the disease. There is no point throwing away what time you
have left.”

“I don’t want a couple of years. I don’t even want ten or
twenty years. I want all the time it will take to leave this place,
to walk out under the sun and sky and lead my men back into
the field. I want to live to see the Nolthanim returned to their
rightful home and enjoying the life on the land that they
should never have lost. Doing this is the only way I can have
these things.”

“Are you sure Malek can give them?”

“I will make sure the terms of the offer are clarified before
I go.”

Ronan’s eyebrows rose. “Oh you will? And what is to prevent
Malek from telling you whatever he likes just to get you
to try? You are Nolthanim. You know the history of Malek’s
promises.”

“I know.”

“So what certainty could he give you?”

“None. But I have no choice. Nothing else can save me.”

“Farimaal—”

“Besides,” Farimaal continued, “if I do this, if I’m successful,
is it not possible that Malek will fear me? Will not all the
men and all the creatures in this place fear me? If I do what
no one believes can be done, don’t you think Malek will keep
his promise to me?”

“You will become legend, that is sure,” Ronan said, “but
how can it be done?”

“That is for me to worry about.”

Ronan had pulled all the meat there was to eat from the
bone, so he tossed it away from the table and licked his fingers.

“Thanks again for the rabbit.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You’re still crazy,” Ronan added.

“Maybe.”

“You know, even if you somehow did succeed in subduing
the Grendolai, and even if Malek did heal you from the disease
and grant you long life, you won’t be leading your men
out onto the battlefield again one day. If Malek doesn’t move
again in the lifetime of this generation, you will lead out our
children or grandchildren. Who knows how many generations
removed they will be? We will all be dead.”

“Unless you come with me. Maybe Malek will give you long
life too.”

Slowly Ronan shook his head. “I’m sorry, friend. I want to
walk beneath the sun and sky again too, but I’d rather spend
the remainder of my days here than die in this foolishness.
That’s what it is, you know. I’m sorry you have the disease, but
I wish you wouldn’t throw away the months and years you have
left in the vain hope of a miracle.”

“I understand, but I am decided.”

“When are you going to Malek?”

“After I have seen the keeper.”

“Nalson? Why are you going to him?”

“Because he is the keeper. He knows what the rest of us
have forgotten. He is the memory of the Nolthanim, and if
anyone knows anything about the towers or the Grendolai
that I can turn to my advantage, it is Nalson.”

Ronan nodded. “Can I come with you?”

“Sure. I’m meeting with him tomorrow.”

“And if you don’t learn anything that will help you? Will
you give up this idea then?”

“No.”

Ronan sighed. “I didn’t think so.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Habit.”

Farimaal smiled. “Come, Ronan,” he said, standing. “Let’s
not spend the remainder of the day debating the issue. Tomorrow
we will see what the keeper has to say.”

Nalson Kirisuul clasped his hands tightly together and peered
at Farimaal over them. On the wall behind his bed was the tapestry
of Harak Andunin, the symbol of Nolthanin that each
keeper passed on to the next, along with the stories of the
Nolthanim. He was ten years older than Farimaal and had
only been keeper about that long. “The dragon towers?”

“Yes.”

“Everything?”

“Yes.”

“All the Kirthanim, with the aid of the Great Bear and under
the direction of some of the Twelve, built them early in
the First Age. The rock was quarried—”

“Perhaps not everything,” Farimaal interjected, and he
didn’t turn to look at Ronan, who he knew would be smirking.
“I was thinking more in terms of their design than their history.”

Nalson nodded. “The towers themselves exist purely as a
stand for the gyres on top. There is nothing inside them except
a narrow spiral stair. The walls are extra thick to support
the gyres’ weight, leaving little room for anything else. The
gyres on top are like great bowls of smooth stone. They are
open except for a small roof that stands over the center of the
gyre.”

“The roof was to shelter the dragons?”

“No, the roof was meant to protect signal fires. The Novaana
used beacons to summon dragons, and if the weather
was bad, they needed to be covered. Each gyre has a great
door in the floor. Dragons would descend from the gyre into
the large supply room below if they desired shelter from bad
weather or if they wished to partake of any of the supplies the
men and Great Bear would sometimes leave for them there.”

“The narrow stairs you spoke of, they were big enough for
Great Bear carrying supplies, then?”

“Big enough for Great Bear, yes, but only just. Great Bear
could ascend the stairs if they went on all fours and squeezed through the narrow doorway at the top. If they brought supplies,
they probably dragged them up behind or pushed them
up ahead.”

“So how did the Grendolai get up into the supply rooms?
Could they also fit up the stairs if they climbed on all fours?”

“Oh no, the Grendolai are too tall and far too broad to ascend
inside the towers, but they didn’t need to. Their arms are
so powerful that they can ascend the outside of the towers.
Their claws were made to be stronger than even the strongest
stone, and up they went, sinking their claws into the exterior
walls. Once up on top, they most likely slipped down into the
great rooms beneath the gyre and waited for dragons to come.
There they could attack the dragons where they were most vulnerable,
in the underbelly. Before warning could spread
among the dragons of the Grendolai’s existence and danger,
many of Sulmandir’s children died at their hands, and before
long the dragons forsook the towers altogether for the safer
climes of the mountains. So the towers have been dark and
abandoned by all but the Grendolai these past fifteen years,
and so they shall be as long as the Grendolai live.”

“And how long will that be?” Farimaal asked, but only half
seriously, for he knew it was a question that neither Nalson nor
anyone else could answer, perhaps not even Malek, their
maker.

Nalson shrugged. “I cannot say, but there they are and
there they will remain.”

“The Grendolai,” Farimaal started, bringing Nalson’s attention
to the other subject of his inquiry, “they are less than
three spans tall, are they not?”

“Yes, two and half, maybe a hand or two more.”

“Still, you are sure they cannot use the stairs in the towers?”

“No. You have seen them. Their shoulders are massive, two
or three times as wide as any Great Bear’s. The passage is too
narrow to allow it.”

“So their only way in and out of the towers is from above.
They must go out through the gyre and down the outer wall.”

“Yes, though I don’t think they are frequently outside.”

“But surely they eat.”

“Yes, they do, but I think their need of food is far different
from our own. They can go long periods of time without eating;
indeed their metabolism is not unlike that of a hibernating
animal. This is no doubt why they are reluctant to leave
the towers. They have great rooms that are completely dark
and isolated.”

“And their weakness?”

Nalson shook his head. “I don’t know of any.”

“But if even a dragon is vulnerable like you said, underneath,
than surely the Grendolai are weak too.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t know where.”

“If a swordsman could get close enough, could he not be
successful at the joints? The eyes? Somewhere?”

“I don’t see how anyone could get close enough. Not only
are their hands strong, but their arms are unusually long,
nearly as long as their bodies. And the Grendolai are as fast as
any living thing. A swordsman would be ripped into pieces
long before he was able to bring a single stroke home.”

“What about arrows?”

“Arrows? Their hides are virtually impossible to penetrate,
except perhaps by another Grendolai’s claw, or a dragon’s.
You would need an arrow the size of a battering ram to penetrate
that hide.”

“A spear then?”

“A spear might work in theory, but I can’t see how it could
be used in reality. A man couldn’t lift a spear large enough to
deal a mortal wound to the Grendolai, let alone strike with it,
and one stroke is all he’d get, if that. A spear of regular size
just wouldn’t work. If it pierced the armor at all, which would
be unlikely unless the head was exceptional, it would inflict but a pinprick. More likely the Grendolai would catch and
smash the spear on its way, then he would catch and smash the
spearman.”

“There must be some point of weakness,” Farimaal muttered.

“Perhaps a Grendolai could be crushed under the gyre if it
could be dropped on him, but I don’t know of a force in all
Kirthanin that could dislodge the stones of the tower, for they
were made with extraordinary skill and blessed by the Twelve.
They have weathered two thousand winters and show no diminished
structural resilience at all, save only where the claws
of the Grendolai have chipped their exterior.

“I will add this much to what I have already said: In the
right place, with the right equipment and enough men, a
Grendolai could be killed. Especially if it was daylight, for they
hate the light of the sun. But in a dragon tower, where they
live in darkness in a confined space, the Grendolai are essentially
unassailable.”

Farimaal nodded, and when Nalson said no more, he
stood to go. Ronan stood as well. “Keeper, I thank you for
sharing the knowledge of our people. May you live long and
keep safe the memory of the Nolthanim.”

Nalson nodded. “You are welcome,” he answered, again
peering carefully at Farimaal. “You will need the knowledge
of our people and more if you intend to do more than ask
questions.”

Farimaal nodded, not wishing to discuss the matter,
though Nalson had clearly guessed at his purpose for coming.
Nalson added, “Please send Derrod in as you go out. His
lessons for the day have only just begun.”

“I will.” Farimaal left the room, followed by Ronan.

Farimaal ignored the voice that seemed to drone endlessly behind
him in the corridor. He grew weary of Ronan’s chatter, but Ronan didn’t appear to grow weary of chattering. “Are
you listening to me?” Ronan said, his volume escalating.

“No,” Farimaal said without turning around.

Ronan grabbed his arm, and Farimaal spun, stopping to
meet Ronan’s gaze with fire in his own eyes. “You heard what
Nalson told you last week. You can’t go into the dragon tower
to fight the Grendolai and hope to come out. This mission is
impossible.”

Farimaal scoffed. “The boundaries of the possible change
all the time. If no one ever tried the so-called impossible, most
of the world’s greatest accomplishments would never have
come to pass.”

“Maybe so, but this is beyond you. Let it go.”

“I will not.”

Ronan’s frustration turned to sadness. “Then you will go to
your death alone.” He let go of Farimaal’s arm and stepped
back.

“Very well then. I will go to my death, but at least I will go
to it. It will not come to me as I sit skulking in this hole. I at
least will die a man’s death.”

“No, Farimaal, you will die a fool’s death.”

Ronan left, and Farimaal turned back in the direction he
was going. A quarter of an hour later he approached Malek’s
chamber, and a small contingent of soldiers stood before the
entrance, talking quietly among themselves. They were
Nolthanim as well, but because they served on Malek’s private
guard, they held themselves aloof from regular officers of the
Nolthanim.

“What business brings you here, soldier?”

“I’m here to see Malek.”

“Are you indeed?” The man laughed and looked at his
companions as though Farimaal was out of his mind. “Go
away, fool, you don’t come to this door unbidden. Malek will
call you if he has need of you.”

“He has and he does. Malek has these last three months repeated
his invitation for any who would subdue the Grendolai
to come forward.”

The man laughed again, as did his friends, but when he
looked back at Farimaal, the laughter died in his mouth. His
eyes narrowed, and he stepped toward Farimaal, sniffing. “I
smell no ale on your breath, but even so, you must be drunk.
Make your purpose here plain and have done with you.”

“I have, but if you are too slow to follow me, repeating myself
will do no good.”

Anger flashed across the man’s face, and he made to draw
his sword, but one of the other guards stayed his hand. “Let it
be. If he is serious, he will die soon enough. If he isn’t, well, he
will learn firsthand that no man makes a mockery of Malek.”

Farimaal stood still, his hand resting casually on the hilt of
his sword. The guard who intervened took Farimaal in soberly,
then spoke with measured tones. “I know you. You are the one
they call Farimaal, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

The guard nodded. “You are fearless in battle, that I remember.
I believe you are here in earnest, but I cannot see
how even your success on the battlefield gives you cause to believe
you can do this. We will announce your name and reason
for coming, if you are decided.”

“I am.”

“Very well.” The guard motioned to another guard, who
went inside and closed the door. The guards and Farimaal
stood silently, no one moving, until the man returned. “The
Master will see you. Go in and have a seat.”

Farimaal nodded and stepped through the door. The
room inside was scarcely lit by a low, flickering candle near a
single chair. Farimaal crossed to it. He could hear from the
echo of his own footsteps on the stone floor that the room was
much larger than the small candle revealed.

“So, you have come in answer to my call,” a voice said from
the shadows, and the hair on Farimaal’s arms tingled at the
sound.

“I have.”

“You are willing to go to the dragon tower and confront
the Grendolai?”

“I am, if you can give me what I desire in exchange.”

“If I can give you what you desire?” Malek sounded mildly
amused.

“Yes.”

“What do you desire, man of Nolthanin?”

“Time.”

“Time?”

“Yes, I want more time. I have the sickness.”

“Ahh, I see,” Malek answered in smooth and even tones.
“You are dying anyway, so you thought you’d go out and see
the world one more time. You thought you’d cross over into
the ancient homeland of your fathers for one last journey. You
thought that this would be a more interesting way to make an
end than dying a slow and painful death here in the Mountain
with the rest of my servants. Is this so?”

“It is so, but I have not reconciled myself to death as you
suppose. I mean not simply to subdue the Grendolai but to
kill it and so deliver the allegiance of the remainder to you
again. That is why I am here.”

A sound of scraping on the stone floor drew Farimaal’s
eyes, and a stooped figure in dark blue robes stepped forward
to the edge of the candlelit area. Malek’s hand took Farimaal’s
chin in a strong grip. Piercing blue eyes peered out from under
Malek’s hood, which was drawn up over his dark hair, and
for a long moment, Farimaal returned Malek’s stare. At last
Malek began to nod. “Yes, I see. You are determined to try
your hand at this thing.”

“I am.”

“Then you have my promise,” Malek answered, his voice almost
a whisper. “If you give me back the Grendolai, I will give
you all the time you want. Is that the answer you were looking
for?”

“It is.”

“What hope have you for success?”

“Little, but hope I do have. I have a plan, but I won’t really
know whether it can succeed until I am there.”

“When will you head out?”

“I need to make a trip to the Kellisor Sea—”

“The Kellisor Sea? Why?”

“There are two things I need. One I could possibly get
here, but the other almost certainly I could find no place
closer than there.”

“These things are necessary?”

“I can think of no way around it.”

“Very well then. I have waited this long for someone to
come forward; I can wait a little longer. How long will you
need?”

“To go around Gyrin and reach the coast and get back I
will need perhaps two months.”

“So be it. Come to me upon your return. I will have an escort
ready.”

The escort Malek promised consisted of half a dozen
Nolthanim and about as many Malekim, but the number of
Nolthanim had swollen to more than thirty by the time they
were out of the Mountain and headed north to the dragon
tower.

Apparently, word of Farimaal’s venture had spread
throughout the Mountain rapidly, and there was talk of little
else during his absence. Speculation about his sanity, the
terms of his agreement with Malek, and the purpose for his
mysterious trip to the Kellisor Sea swirled through the tunnels and corridors of the Mountain like great gusts of wind. The
general consensus on each of the questions appeared to be
that too much time underground had indeed deprived Farimaal
of at least part of his senses, that Malek promised Farimaal
a throne in Avalione, and that the trip to the Kellisor Sea
involved some sort of quest for a magic weapon, perhaps hidden
by Malek during the Invasion. Farimaal’s return from the
sea caused such a stir that it reminded him of the days before
they departed from Nal Gildoroth to board the ships for
Suthanin more than fifteen years ago.

On his departure from the Mountain, just six short days
later, word again quickly spread, and several, especially among
the younger Nolthanim, hastily joined the party. At first the
additional Nolthanim rode at some distance behind Farimaal
and his escort, watching the quiet, lean, and grizzled man
make his way steadily toward one of the most feared places in
Kirthanin. After a few days, however, they joined the other
Nolthanim in the escort and all traveled together, though Farimaal
consistently rebuffed their attempts to engage him in dialogue
of any kind. He did not speak rudely or dismissively; he
simply did not speak to them at all.

Farimaal knew why they had come. They were there to see
him fail, but he would not fail. At first they kept their murmurs
and mockery to themselves, but by the end of the first
week, the uninvited Nolthanim began to mock and ridicule
Farimaal and his quest openly. They rode beside, before, and
behind him, laughing at his folly and speculating as to the
specifics of the hideous and certain death that awaited him.
And so, in this way, the remainder of their journey passed until
they were camped perhaps half a league away from the
dragon tower, now visible above the tops of the trees that surrounded
it in the distance.

The following day, the men and Malekim of the escort, as
well as the hangers on, made no motions to accompany him. He packed his saddlebag and prepared to ride on alone as the
others sat around a fledgling fire.

“What did it feel like, waking up for the last time?” one of
the more contemptuous of the uninvited Nolthanim asked as
Farimaal mounted. “All this time you’ve spent traveling, first
to the Kellisor Sea and now here to the dragon tower, and the
Grendolai will probably kill you in less time than it takes me to
drink a cup of water on a hot day.”

“Even so,” another added, “we thank you for the excuse to
leave our digging and our duties behind us. It has been pleasant
to ride abroad again, even through this wilderness. What’s
more, though you will likely be dead before we lie down to
sleep this evening, we’ll remain here for a week or so on the
pretense of waiting for your return. Then we’ll take to the road
again, enjoying every moment of our journey, before having to
feign sadness at your failure. We are greatly in your debt.”

“Greatly,” a third chimed in, “but we regret we will have no
chance to repay what we owe.”

“When I return,” Farimaal said, looking down at them
serenely from his horse and enjoying the shock on their faces
at hearing his voice for the first time in reply, “I will exact payment
from each of you in my own time and way.”

He turned his horse away and spurred it forward.

Farimaal stooped beside the bones of the Vulsutyrim scattered
beside the door to the dragon tower. As he had suspected, the
giants died outside the tower. It was comforting to have been
right, and alarming at the same time. He would have to limit
his excursions outside the tower to times when the sun was
fully up and shining, and even then he’d be quick about his
business. The Grendolai who inhabited this place still used
the exterior of the tower as a ladder, and however odd it
seemed, the only safe place for Farimaal was inside the tower
and on the spiral stairs.

He pulled the heavy saddlebag off his horse but left the
saddle on. He stroked the horse gently for a few moments,
then picked up a stick from the ground and struck the beast
hard upon the hindquarters. The startled animal started off
and ran several spans through the trees before slowing to a
trot. He disliked having to be cruel to the poor creature, but
he feared it would be supper for the Grendolai otherwise.
With any luck it would make its way back to the camp and the
others and so return again safely to the Mountain.

Farimaal shouldered his saddlebag and walked to the great
iron door that stood slightly ajar at the base of the dragon
tower. He hesitated, gazing up the exterior wall to the gyre
high above him. He wondered just what exactly he would find
up there, but he did not allow the question to delay him for
too long. He pulled a torch from his saddlebag, lit it, and
wrenched the door open just enough to slip inside.

The stairs were much like he had imagined them. They
were narrow and steep, very steep. He ran his hands along the
smooth stone of the interior walls and marveled at the quality
of the work. The joints were still solid, and whatever had been
used for mortar was not crumbling. The stones did not seem
to have groaned under the weight of all they upheld for so
many years. He was glad, for his plan, at least in part, depended
upon their stability.

He pulled the door almost entirely closed behind him, but
not quite. He couldn’t bring himself to close it completely.
The torch flickered, burning brightly enough to illuminate
the small space. Farimaal set his foot cautiously upon the first
stair and started up. Though he knew he could not hide his
presence from the Grendolai for long—indeed, it was essential
to his plan that the Grendolai know of him and be aware
of him—he felt the urge to be quiet and so stepped up gingerly
and delicately, so that each footstep made almost no
sound.

Around and around, upward and upward he went, the
torch flickering. Occasionally his pack, so heavy it pulled him
constantly toward the outer wall, would hit the stone, and a
slight echo would reverberate up and down the spiral staircase.
Then he would pause, frozen on the steps, listening. But
every time he stopped to listen, he heard nothing except his
own breathing. He didn’t know if the Grendolai heard him or
smelled him or detected him in any way, and though he’d
spent much time in dark corridors and tunnels of late, he felt
a bit unnerved.

He stopped again, but this time he was smiling. He was unnerved
by the mystery, by the unknown, by the uncertainty of
what he would find above, and it was precisely the power of
these things to unnerve and disconcert that his plan was based
upon. But, he wondered, and not for the first time, would
these things affect a Grendolai like they affected a man?
Could a Grendolai be unnerved and disconcerted? Or were
they so secure in their dark homes that Farimaal’s hopes were
based on impossibilities? Were they so sure of their invincibility
that they could not be baited?

Farimaal started upward again. He needed the Grendolai
to be so confident, but he also needed him to be capable of
doubt and capable of being provoked. For Farimaal this would
require patience, almost inhuman patience. He would have to
endure long hours and days and perhaps weeks in this unsettling
darkness as he worked bit by bit to prepare the Grendolai
for that one brief moment when everything would hinge on
the strength of the tower’s stone, the speed of Farimaal’s reflexes,
and the Grendolai’s desire to rip him to pieces.

Eventually, Farimaal reached the top of the stairs. The uppermost
steps moved up and out, extending toward a small
open space of perhaps half a span framed by an open doorway.
The fact that the stairs were just as steep here, and that
there was a slightly greater number of stairs within view of his torchlight, was encouraging. He had worried about whether
the tower would be both wide and long enough for the pole
he had in mind, but he could see now that it was.

He didn’t waste much time thinking about that, though,
for there would be plenty of time later to set the trap. What
would take more time, and what he needed to turn his attention
to first, was presenting the bait and convincing the Grendolai
to care enough to go for it.

Farimaal stood a couple of steps down from the top. With
less than a span between the top step and the doorway, he
wasn’t about to go all the way up, where the Grendolai’s arms,
infamous for both their length and their strength, would be
able to reach him. Instead he gazed through the open door
into the darkness of the storeroom beyond. He couldn’t see
much, but he could see that the space beyond was large, much
larger than the narrow landing.

For a long time he stood there, waiting and listening. He
felt a growing curiosity to explore the room, but he knew that
would be foolish. Patience, he reminded himself, I can only do
this with patience.

And then, almost as if on cue, a soft and even soothing
voice spoke from the darkness. “Greetings, stranger. Welcome
to my home. Why wait outside my door? Having come so far
so boldly, why not see what you have come to see?”

The Grendolai’s voice was so inviting that for a moment he
forgot the danger. Farimaal felt his foot rising to ascend, but
he forced it back down. “No thank you,” Farimaal called when
he had gathered himself. “I am not yet worthy to stand in your
presence. I will come in when I have earned the right.”

There was a pause, and then the Grendolai spoke again.
“There is no need to prove yourself here. All are welcome.
Come in.”

“I am afraid not,” Farimaal said, almost laughing. “I have
seen how you welcomed your more recent guests, and I have no wish to remain in your company in that state. I have not
come to stay forever, unfortunately. I’m only here until I have
done my master’s bidding.”

“And who is your master?”

“You know my master, for he is your master too.”

“I am my own master. No one rules over me.”

“You are wrong, for you have both a maker and a master,
and they are one and the same. I am sent here by him to secure
the return of your allegiance.”

Low laughter echoed in the darkness beyond the doorway.
“You are a jester, sent here for my amusement. What crime did
you commit that Malek sent you here to atone for it? Is there
an army hidden behind you, crouching on the stairs? Surely
you haven’t come alone. Even if you haven’t, you have come
here in vain. You will not leave this place with my submission.
Indeed, unless you flee, you will not leave at all.”

“I will not flee.”

“Good,” the soothing voice said with genuine enthusiasm.
“I have gotten used to regular meals again. I don’t suppose
you will make more than a snack, but I will eat and give thanks
to my maker for his provision all the same.”

“Do as you please with me if you catch me,” Farimaal answered.
“I expect no mercy from you, nor will I grant any.”

For a second time laughter came floating through the
darkness. “Good, little messenger, I consider myself duly
warned. Even so, my submission you will not have.”

“I am not here for your surrender. I have come for your
head.”

The laughter ceased, and Farimaal wondered what was
happening now in the quiet darkness. When no words or
laughter or sound of any kind came after several minutes, he
threw his torch as far into the room as he could. It landed
many spans inside, and the small flame still burning on the
stone floor made precious little difference in the dark expanse. Farimaal waited, and still nothing happened. He held
his breath, but soon doubt began to creep in, doubt that the
Grendolai’s hatred of light was as strong as rumor claimed.

Then a dark form moved across the small circle of light the
torch had created, and for a brief instant Farimaal saw a towering
form as a great foot came down upon the torch, thrusting
the tower into darkness.

As soon as the light was extinguished, Farimaal retreated
instinctively and reached around for his pack and another
torch. As he did, though, his foot slipped and he lost his balance,
falling several steep steps before he could stop his momentum.
He clenched his teeth to keep from howling and
held his shin where it had crashed against the stone. As he
did, a voice, seeming to come from just above, floated down
the stairs. “Watch yourself, little messenger. You’ll find my
head hard to come by. How secure is yours?”

Farimaal sat as still as he could until the throbbing in his
leg had diminished enough for him to descend again. He
went down about ten steps, then emptied his pack entirely, distributing
on the stairs the things he had brought with him. He
took out what food he had left and his supply of torches. Then
he removed the coil of rope he had obtained from the shipping
yard on the Kellisor Sea. Lastly, he set out a hammer,
three iron rings, and the great iron piece fashioned by the
blacksmith there, which weighed the better part of half a
dozen stone. This he set cautiously on a stair against the wall.
He didn’t want to step on that by accident, so he lit a torch
and surveyed his items. Moving gingerly, he descended the
great stair to the bottom.

Pushing the iron door open, he stepped back out into the
sunshine. He breathed deeply, as though coming up for air.
For a moment he drank in the sunshine on the leaves of the
trees, the slight breeze, and the feel of space around him.
Then, with his empty pack, he set about the task at hand. Moving slowly around the tower and out under the nearest trees,
he started filling his pack with rocks.

That night, Farimaal slept on the stairs of the dragon tower. It
was every bit as uncomfortable as he had imagined it would
be, but he didn’t dare sleep outside. Nor did he dare sleep
within reach of the iron door at the bottom or the storeroom
door at the top.

Eventually he did sleep, and when he awoke, he had no
concept of whether it was day or night. He picked up one of
the iron rings and the hammer and silently ascended to the
top. He stepped onto the small landing outside the open door
for the first time, and sweat began to bead on his forehead.
This was one of the stages in his plan that made him nervous,
even more than most of it did, but there was nothing for it. If
he couldn’t get the rings in, there was no plan. Reaching overhead,
he could not feel the ceiling. It had looked the previous
day, in the torchlight, to be just over a span and a half, so he
knew it would be close. Setting the hammer and ring on the
top stair, he went back down. As he filled his pack with rocks
the previous day, he found two broad, flat stones, which he
now lugged up the stairs one at a time. He set each gently on
the edge of the top stair, then slid them into the middle of the
landing. There he set the one on top of the other, and with
hammer and ring in hand, stood on them.

With the added height, he could place his hand flat against
the ceiling. He felt around with his fingertips for one of the
joints, and having found it, raised the iron ring. The ring was
about half a hand in diameter, with a long iron piece coming
out of one side, tapering to a sharp point. This point he lined
up on the joint. Then, looking nervously at the door that
opened onto the darkness beside him, he raised his hammer.

Ching! Ching! Ching! The hammer flew up and down, and
the sound of metal on metal split the silence and echoed in the darkness. It took several strokes before he felt the ring
move at all, and he kept pounding. He needed to drive the
ring all the way in and get out of this vulnerable spot. He kept
hitting, over and over, aware that every stroke exposed him
further. Suddenly the sound of scraping against stone came to
him between strokes, and without hesitation he let go of the
ring and with hammer in hand leapt off of the stones in the
direction of the stairs. This time, miraculously, he kept his balance
when he landed.

He scrambled down several steps, then squatted, listening.
After a moment, he heard the Grendolai’s voice. “Piling stones
at my door, little messenger? Do I not have enough stone about
me that you need to bring more? Do you hope to shut me in
by walling off my door? Pile away. If these are the biggest stones
you can carry, know I can squeeze them into dust.”

When no further words were forthcoming, Farimaal
slipped back down and grabbed a second ring. He didn’t dare
continue the actual work of driving them in today, but as he
had nothing else to do, he could always begin his siege on the
Grendolai’s patience. Settling onto one of the stairs as close to
the top as he dared, he set down the iron ring and started tapping
it firmly, over and over. Sitting there in the dark, listening
to the echo of the hammer, he thought of life inside the
Mountain. He could only hope the Grendolai found this disruption
of his quiet life as irritating as Farimaal did.

All he did the rest of the day was tap the iron ring, over
and over, but if he was provoking the Grendolai, there was no
sign of it. Eventually he went to sleep again, passing a second
uncomfortable night on the stairs. When he awoke, he slipped
up to the top again. He felt for the stones that he’d left on the
landing, and sure enough, they were still there. Slowly, quietly,
he stepped back up onto them. He reached up and felt
around on the ceiling until he found the iron ring again. He
was pleased to find that he had driven the iron shaft above the ring solidly into the mortar of the joint. In fact, it was more
than halfway in, and a few solid blows would be sufficient to
drive it the rest of the way. It might have been secure enough
as it was, but Farimaal didn’t want his plan to fail because he
hadn’t completely secured the ring. He lifted the hammer to
finish the job, but paused, turning to stare at the open doorway.

Suddenly he felt quite sure it would be a mistake to strike
the ring, so he stepped off and hastily scrambled down the
stair and found the iron ring he’d spent the previous day tapping.
Picking it up and returning to a place only six or seven
stairs from the top, he struck the ring as hard as he could so
that the sound rang up and down the stairs.

No sooner had he struck the ring than something sailed
over his head and smashed into the wall. That something
smashed into pieces, some of which fell on Farimaal’s head.
He scrambled back down and, lighting one of his torches, examined
what had broken. It only took a moment to recognize
the fractured pieces of a large skull, probably that of a
Malekim, for it was too small to be a giant’s and too big to be
a man’s.

Farimaal smiled as he grabbed his pack and moved as close
as he dared to the top of the stairs. “I appreciate your cooperative
spirit,” Farimaal called out, “but that was not the head I
was after.”

There was no response from within, and after several moments,
Farimaal drew open the pack and stacked several
stones on the stair beside him. Then, standing, he took a few
in his left hand and again threw his torch as far into the open
room as he could. This time the massive form quickly crossed
the small circle of light and stomped it out. Just as quickly,
Farimaal began throwing the stones in the direction of the
great form. Half a dozen stones he threw, and though he tried
to hear what they struck, he could not tell if any had hit anything
but the stone floor.

The Grendolai’s soft, low laugh sounded right above
him. Panicked, Farimaal moved clumsily down several stairs.
If the Grendolai wasn’t standing in the doorway, he was
right beside it. “This is your plan, little messenger? Draw me
out into the open with your torches, then throw these pebbles
at me? What do you think they will accomplish? Tell me
you haven’t come all this way and pinned all your hopes on
that. Tell me there is more to your dread plan than stones
and persistent sounds. Come now, servant of Malek, show
me something to fear, for my only fear right now is that I will
grow bored with you.”

Farimaal didn’t speak but listened for the Grendolai’s next
move. The sound of another object smashing against the wall,
followed by a second, both dropping heavily onto the stairs,
told him he had been right to be cautious. He groped around
in the darkness and found one of the broad stones that had
been sitting on the landing. Part of it had been broken off by
the impact, but it was basically intact, which was good news. It
would have been inconvenient had the Grendolai taken the
stones away, but the only inconvenience now was that Farimaal
would have to put them back.

He found the other and stacked them both together before
heading to the bottom. He would leave the ring alone for
today. He would leave the Grendolai in silence, leave the creature
to wonder if he’d been scared away. Farimaal had other
things that needed taking care of, and now was as good a time
as any.

Outside in the sunshine, he walked among the trees that surrounded
the dragon tower. Most of the trees were old, very
old, but he spotted new growth here and there, and these
trees he examined carefully. None of them was exactly the
right size. Though he looked all day, he did not find what he
wanted. He marked the tree that came closest, but he was not yet ready to give up on finding the perfect one. The one luxury
he had now was time, for the longer he dwelt upon the
tower stairs, the longer the Grendolai lived with the mystery of
his presence, the better his chances that when the right moment
came, the creature would respond as he desired.

The better part of the next day Farimaal searched again,
and not long before sundown he found what seemed the perfect
tree. The diameter was ideal, he was sure of it, and the
trunk was straight and solid. The tree was taller than he could
lift or carry, he knew that, but better too big than too small.
He could cut it down to a manageable size, but now was not
the time. As the sun sank, he marked this tree as well and
quickly made his way back inside.

His fourth night on the stairs was just as miserable as the
first three, and after drifting in and out of sleep several times,
he decided that it was time to finish with the first ring. If the
Grendolai was camped out close to the doorway, this could be
the end of everything, but sooner or later, he was going to
have to try. He had not ascended to the top in almost two days,
and when he reached the two stones, he found himself
strangely calm. One at a time, he lifted them back up to the
landing and stacked them there again. With no hesitation he
stepped up onto the stones, found the ring with his left hand,
and sent the hammer flying. Ching! Ching! Ching!

Six strokes. That was all it took. The ring was flush with the
ceiling, driven in as far as he could drive it. A great arm swept
past him in the darkness. A great arm was what it had to be,
for something sharp as nails ripped through his shirt and cut
his side as he leapt down several steps. He felt the wounds, two
shallow, bleeding cuts.

“Your flesh is soft, Nolthanim, for that is what you are, isn’t
it? The land around my tower was once your home, or at least,
it was the home of your fathers before you became Malek’s
slaves. Malek is not your maker, and yet you serve him. He is my creator, but I defy him. I am my own master. Why do you
care if I serve Malek or not? Why come here and give your life
away in service to him? What has he done for you, except conquer
your homeland and subjugate your brothers and sisters?
Go back to the Mountain, or go make your way north. If you
stay here, you will die. One way or another, you will die.”

“Malek is my master,” Farimaal called, “but I’m not here
for him. I’m here for me. If killing you will get me what I want,
so be it. I will kill you and not think twice about it. I will not
die here.”

“So be it, little messenger. You have sealed your fate.”

That was all Farimaal had from the Grendolai, so he
tended his wound and settled in for sleep once more.

The next day, the fifth since his arrival, Farimaal returned to
his tree. With only his hammer and a slender wedge, he set
about cutting the tree down. It was slow going, for he had to
drive the wedge in as far as he dared without getting it completely
stuck, and then work it out so he could drive it in elsewhere
on the trunk. A few times he stopped a hair’s breadth
shy of too far, and the wedge was almost pinched beyond recall.
Still, each time, he patiently and successfully removed it.
Eventually, after making perhaps a dozen cuts into the tree, he
heard a cracking and knew that the tree was ready to be toppled.
He leaned against it and pushed, and with all the force
he could bring to bear, he forced the tree to the ground. He
sat down next to it and rested. He would come back in a day
or two and measure out how long he wanted it to be, but he
couldn’t bring himself to start that laborious process now. He
retreated into the tower.

The following day, though, he did not go back to work on
the tree. Rather he spent the first half of the day finding three
more large, smooth stones that he could stand upon when inserting
the second and third rings. Each of these he carried up the tower and stacked on the landing several hands away
from where the first stack had been. The original stones he
also moved so that he had a wider base on which to stand.

Feeling the ceiling for a joint, he lined up the sharp end of
the next ring and started to drive it in. He worked until it was
in far enough to stay without him holding it, and then he
quickly ducked down and stooped nearby on the stairs. He
waited, but nothing happened. Nothing came flying through
the door; no voice called or laughed from within. He lit a
torch, stood, and hurled it into the room. The Grendolai did
not go to it immediately, but he did go, and Farimaal marked
that he approached the torch from the far side. He had not
been waiting by the door, nor had he come to it when Farimaal
started to hammer. Even so, he thought he wouldn’t
press his good fortune any further today.

He went downstairs and outside, but not back to the tree.
His food supply was running low. He didn’t know what kind of
creature might live in close proximity to the tower and the
Grendolai, but he thought he’d have a look. He was making
good progress, but even so, he was several days, perhaps even
weeks away from being ready to move forward with his plan.
Sooner or later he was going to have to try his hand at hunting.

Hunting proved futile. He had imagined that the selection
of living creatures near the dragon tower would be slim, but it
seemed as though everything that walked or slithered or
crawled upon the earth had fled. Only the birds remained, but
even these seemed always to be flying overhead, not resting
where they could be caught. Any hope Farimaal harbored for
substantial sustenance slipped away. His only consolation was
the plentiful occurrence of locusts, especially on the trees of
the north. He might not eat well when his food ran out, but
he would eat.

The next three days he spent doing three things in uneven
shifts. In sporadic and brief bursts, he worked on driving home the second iron ring just above the edge of the small
landing. That complete, he set about pounding in a third, this
one into the slightly sloping ceiling just above the first stair. All
told, this took up perhaps only a quarter of an hour of his
time, though it was far and away the activity that dominated
his mind the most as he lay down to sleep each night.

When he wasn’t about the nerve-racking business of securing
the iron rings, he was dividing his time between cutting the
tree to his desired specifications and sitting near the top of the
stairs, tapping the heavy iron piece with his hammer. Long
years beneath the Mountain had all but made him deaf to the
clanging of hammers, but he hoped that the Grendolai’s long
years in silence had made him especially sensitive to the piercing
notes. Still, the creature gave no sign of irritation. If his
plan was working, he had no proof of it. Farimaal could only
hope that despite the apparent calm, the Grendolai would
eventually grow angry enough to become careless.

On the tenth day, as Farimaal climbed to his place near the
top of the steps to continue his psychological assault, a voice
greeted him from inside the room.

“Nolthanim, the pole you are shaping down below fascinates
me.”

Farimaal felt his heartbeat falter. In his mind’s eye he
imagined the tree broken into pieces or gone altogether. All
that work, and now he would have to start over. Worse, perhaps
the Grendolai had figured it out: the hammering, the
tree, the plan. He was unmasked. How could he have been so
careless as to leave his work lying on the grass overnight? He
knew the Grendolai was not confined to the tower. Why had it
not occurred to him that the creature might find his handiwork?

“Still,” the creature continued, “if you have aspirations to
be a carpenter, I can’t see that you have any future here. Like the stones you have piled outside my door, what good will that
pole do you? It may be a mighty tree to you, but I assure you
it is but a twig to me. I would snap it in my hand, as you would
break dead branches from a tree. Go home, little messenger,
and leave your scheming and your irritations behind. You
have worn out your welcome here, and when you eventually
find the courage to come out from your hiding spot, I will
sharpen one end of that stick of yours and spit you upon it.”

Farimaal did not dare speak for fear he would give away his
panic. If he was undone, he would find out for himself down
below. He would not, though, as his enemy had done, give
anymore of himself or his plan away involuntarily. He had at
last confirmation that he was succeeding in irritating the
Grendolai. The voice was the same, but the message and
words were different. He wanted Farimaal gone or dead, whatever
would silence him. But Farimaal would not be silenced.
He took up his hammer and started tapping.

When his hand was exhausted from the motion of the
hammer, he made his way quickly down the stairs and outside.
Hurrying through the trees to the place where he had left his
pole on the ground, he saw it still lying there. If it had been
touched, he could not tell. He set to work, for he did not want
to leave it out even one more night. He cut and shaped and
peeled what remained of the bark. He needed it smooth, completely
smooth, and by the early evening, the surface was like
the slick stone of the tower wall. Returning to the tower at a
run, he grabbed the great iron piece and his hammer and the
four solid nails he had left with his rope.

Back in the dying light of day, he carefully slid the top of
the wooden pole into the open end of the large iron piece,
which was thick and solid and more than two hands in diameter.
Yet at the top, the piece formed a point so sharp that it
could have slid between Farimaal’s finger and his fingernail.
The tree slid snugly almost a hand into the sharp point, and with the hammer, Farimaal drove the four nails through the
holes prepared for them and into the hard wood. He clasped
the thick edge of the iron piece and tried to tug it off, but it
would not move at all.

The sun had nearly set, and he dared not risk being found
by the Grendolai, so he expended the last of his energy on
dragging the tree into the tower. It was almost completely dark
when he set the tree down some twenty stairs up, securing the
edge of the great iron head on the stair to keep it from sliding
down. He considered retrieving his hammer, but he would
have to leave it out tonight. Better to lose his hammer than his
life.

The next day, he returned to the place where he had
shaped and smoothed the tree, but his hammer wasn’t there.
He looked all over the small clearing, but he couldn’t find it.
It was useless to conjecture whether the Grendolai had destroyed
or taken it; in the end it didn’t really matter. The
groove on the tree he could make with the wedge, which the
Grendolai had not taken with the hammer. Perhaps he had
overlooked it, for it was still lying in the grass. He took up the
wedge and returned to the tower.

Ascending to the top of the stairs, he stepped quietly onto
the stones and threaded the end of his rope through the three
rings so that the end almost touched the landing. He couldn’t
light a torch to see what he was doing, because it was imperative
that the Grendolai never see the rope. He was going to
have to use his hands and arms to measure distances in the
dark, which meant he was going to have to brave his way across
the landing to the door. It wasn’t the only time his plan called
for this, but it would be the most vulnerable time. If the Grendolai
was lurking there, all Farimaal’s efforts were in vain.

Holding the rope he had fed through the loops, he started
to crawl, groping through the darkness. He made his measurements.
If the iron head was to be free to swing through the doorway, Farimaal must give the rope enough slack to prevent
the point from going straight into the ceiling.

The pole was just over two spans long, and with the iron
head attached, it was almost all Farimaal could do to lift it.
Even after he had made the groove and attached the rope, it
took him two full days of yanking and tugging and pulling to
move the contraption up the stairs. He had to go quietly, for
great screechings and scrapings would have alerted the Grendolai
to the nature of the danger that Farimaal was preparing.
All Farimaal could do was lift the pole, step by step,
setting it down on each successive stair and keeping firm hold
on the rope should the pole start to slide. In this way he
brought it all the way up to the place where he had been
sleeping the previous twelve nights. He was ready to put the
plan in motion. All that remained was to spend one final day
baiting the hook.

The next morning, Farimaal took all but three of his remaining
torches and climbed to the top of the stairs. He removed
the stones that he had used on the landing, as they would only
get in the way now. A sizeable stack of smaller stones remained.
Lighting one of the torches and throwing it into the
room, he again took aim at the form of the Grendolai stomping
out the offending light. This Farimaal did at random intervals
throughout the day, until his supply of both torches
and rocks was exhausted. The Grendolai said nothing as this
pattern was repeated, and neither did Farimaal. He felt as
though they had established a connection, a clear and almost
tangible bond. There was no more use for words. Neither
would speak again until the other was dead.

The morning of the fifteenth day came at last, and Farimaal
stretched on the stairs. Today was the day. He would go down
and look on the outer world once more. If he failed and these were his final hours, he would spend them in the sunlight, under
the trees.

In the early afternoon he ascended the stair once more.
The way was now familiar, and his feet moved quickly and quietly
up the long spiral stairwell. When he reached the pole, he
went right to work moving it up, step by step. With every step,
he became increasingly sensitive to the slightest sound. He
spent ages lowering the pole at an almost imperceptible rate,
all with the hope that no sound at all would be made. In this
way, he moved slowly toward the landing. When at last he was
there, he took off his shirt and wiped the sweat from his face.
Crouching beside the pole, he made sure it was centered on
the stairs and that nothing might impede it.

He stooped at the bottom of the pole and gave it a slight
push. It didn’t move. He frowned in the dark. Had he made it
too heavy? It was lighter than he was, but was it light enough?
He would have momentum and he would pull as hard as he
could, but would that be sufficient? With both hands he
grabbed the pole, and straddling it, he pushed it up. It slid a
little bit. He eased it back down gently until it rested on the
stair again. He felt relieved. If he could move it like that from
the bottom, then surely he would be able to propel it forward
when the time came.

Back up top, he took hold of the rope end that wasn’t fastened
to the pole and fed it through the loop closest to the
door. It was a delicate process, as even on his tiptoes he could
barely reach the ring. He then pulled the rope back toward
the stair, and through the second and third rings. When he
had pulled the rope all the way through, he stepped back up
onto the landing. Standing on the edge, he could hold both
lengths of rope in either hand, the taut one securely tied to
the pole and the loose one dangling slack down the stairs. He
closed his eyes and imagined the whole process again. As he
did, he started to feed some of the rope back through the rings. He didn’t want there to be tension in the rope when he
first grabbed it. He wanted some slack to play out before the
rope jerked taut and pulled the pole. He felt both bits of rope
again. The amount of tension felt right now. All that remained
was to take the excess that was sitting in a jumbled heap beside
the pole and move it over until it sat against the wall. He
needed that part of the rope to hang to the side. It would be
catastrophic if he grabbed the wrong piece.

Satisfied that everything was ready, he faced the open
room. There was no time like the present, and the longer he
waited, the more nervous he would become. He’d imagined
this moment a thousand times, and he didn’t need any
more time.

Pulling out his last three torches, he lit them all. He held
two in his left hand and, stepping right up to the doorway,
threw the third as far into the room as he could. As the torch
fell to the floor, some ten spans inside the room, he moved a
second torch into his right hand. As he did, he passed through
the doorway, at last entering the domain of the Grendolai.

He had not gone far when the Grendolai’s large figure
glided into the circle of light and stomped out the torch. The
second torch was already in the air on its way toward the Grendolai,
and heavy footsteps echoed through the room, telling
Farimaal the creature was now moving his way, and quickly. He
turned and ran. As he was turning, he caught a glimpse of the
torch gliding past the ducking form of his pursuer. He expected
that at any moment the long arm of the creature would
reach out and seize him, but it didn’t. He flung the last torch
along the wall as he shot out of the room and onto the landing.
Grabbing the dangling rope, he leapt as high and as hard
off of the top stair as he could.

For the briefest of moments he soared out into the air,
but he barely had time to feel the power of his leap before
the slack in the rope was played out and the weight of the pole on the other end altered his trajectory, swinging him in
a downward arc. He had known that this would hurt, and he
tried to brace himself for the impact of his body against the
stone stairs, even as he tried midflight to pull the rope with
all his might.

His body swung at full speed into the stairs, and pain
erupted all across his body. His leg and ankle hit the hardest,
but as he struck he twisted, and the side of his head whacked
the corner of one of the stairs. He lay there for a second
groaning. He was still holding as tightly as he could to the
rope, and as he pulled against it, he was momentarily encouraged
by the fact that there was not give at all. That was a
good sign.

Even so, his encouragement was only momentary. As his
mind raced back over the leap, he realized that in no part of
his memory could he locate a cry or shriek or scream from the
Grendolai. If the plan had worked, surely some outcry of
shock, of pain, of indignation would have been forthcoming.

Slowly, and with much pain, Farimaal started back up the
stairs, using the taut rope as a handle to pull himself up and
along. As he neared the top, he saw the bottom of the pole
lodged firmly against the top step. Farimaal’s heart sank. The
angle seemed much too sharp. The pole rose too high, too
quickly. He had feared this, that after all his work he might
succeed in doing nothing more than lodging his makeshift
spear in the stone arch above the doorway.

But even as his heart was sinking, he stopped in his tracks.
The torch that he had cast aside was still glowing, and silhouetted
in the doorway by its light was the thick and imposing
form of the Grendolai. He stood where he was, still holding
the rope, and stared.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the faint light, but
as they did, he noticed two things. The first was that the Grendolai
did not move, not at all. The silhouette was completely still. The second was that the pole had not struck the stone arch, for
the long, thick shaft passed through the doorway beneath it.

Hope and excitement began to rise in Farimaal. He stepped
onto the landing and moved closer. He stopped again. Even if
the iron point had struck the Grendolai, it might not have
killed or even seriously wounded the creature. He wait